If You Can't Be With the One You Love

A Man in A Bottle

That damn sound. Oliver thought to himself. The buzzing was ringing through his bedroom. It echoed in his head, causing it to pound.

"Fuck off!" He screamed, slamming the snooze button on the alarm. He placed his palms over his eyes, blocking the blinding light from the sun. He slowly drew his hands down his face before glancing over at the clock. He cursed aloud, realizing he overslept.

He quickly threw his legs off the side of the bed, nearly standing up simultaneously. As he stood up, he felt last night's drinks slowly make a reappearance. He rushes to his bathroom, allowing the excess to exit his body into the sink.

He rested his hands on the counter, leaning near the mirror, getting a good look at himself. His face suffered from discoloration while his eyes looked as if he hadn't slept in days.

He stared at his reflection and hated it. He couldn't look at the man he had become. He deserved nothing. He deserved no one.

Oliver washed the vomit from the sink before splashing cold water on his face. He dried it off with a towel, looking the other direction as quickly as he could. He couldn't stand the sight of himself.

He slowly readied himself for the day. He watched as he put on clothes that gave him the appearance that he had it all together. Ironed slacks, a suit jacket, and a fastened tie hid his misery from the people of Star City.

He did away with the alcohol smell as much as he could— swigging Listerine multiple times, misting cologne. Again, allowing him to put up the facade that he was alright.

"You look like hell."

Oliver was greeted at his door by the same face he was greeted by every day. The salutation, especially as of more recently, remained nearly the same as well.

"Thanks for the reminder, John." Oliver replied, emotionless.

"Always a pleasure, sir." John Diggle snarked, holding the car door open for Oliver to enter. "Missed you out in the field last night."

Oliver scoffed. "I wasn't up for another ass kicking."

"If you weren't drowning yourself in tequila all night, you would have known we were just gathering intel." John began to pull from the driveway.

"At least you're still semi-committing to your day job."

"My day job requires me to talk to investors, go to board meetings, and occasionally make a public appearance," Oliver began solemnly. "It doesn't require questioning some random thug where he got his vertigo from with an arrow aimed at his heart."

John shook his head in disagreement. "Oliver, that thug kicked your ass because you were hungover from your afternoon drinks."

"Well John, it's either give up the bottles or give up the hood," Oliver replies as he opens the door. "And frankly, the hood just makes me more angry."

Oliver slams the door behind him, ignoring Diggle's offhanded comments through the window. Normally, John would walk him into the building. But this morning, he needed his personal space.
As he walked into to his office, he noticed a familiar woman awaiting his arrival.

"Ollie?" a bright smile greeted him inquisitively. "Are you alright?"

Oliver let out a subtle smile before responding. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," she replied worriedly.

"It was a rough night, Laurel." He told her coldly. "Let's just leave it at that."

"You know you can always come to me," she told him softly. "I'm here for you."

He acknowledged her words with a warm smile, pulling a chair out for her and gesturing her to sit. He sat in a chair beside her, with his attention going to the files that laid in her lap. "What are those?"

"These are what I'm here to talk with you about," Laurel began. "You know I work at the DA's office. But a friend of mine who works in corporate sent these to me."

Oliver glances into the folders, trying to understand what information rests on them.

Laurel sighs. "Someone is filing a lawsuit against Queen Enterprises— an old investor. He said his product was faulty and caused damage in their building.

It's bad, Oliver."

Oliver feels his shoulders sulk down into the seat. "How much?"

"500 grand for damages," Laurel begins. "There were multiple injuries as well."

"Goddamnit." Oliver moans. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, his heart dropping more as he reads the caller ID. He forces the phone onto his desk before sinking his head into his palms in distress

Laurel hurriedly shuts and locks the door, giving the two of them privacy. She squats down in front of Oliver, resting her hand on his knee. "What the hell is wrong with you, Oliver?"

He pulls his head from his hands and looks at Laurel. Worry fills her expressions as she intently looks into his broken eyes. "I just need a drink."

"No you don't." Laurel protests. "Trust me. It doesn't help."

"It numbs the pain."

Laurel's expressions become soft as well as her tone. "What pain?"

"The pain of the impossible."

"You need to be more specific," Laurel says before being interrupted by a ring of her phone. "It's the office. I've got to head back. Are you going to be okay?"

Oliver nods with a small smile. Laurel takes a hold of his hand and gives it a squeeze before walking away. He watches her leave through the glass windows. She was a light that shined for everyone around her. Even Oliver, as reclusive and damaged he had become, saw her in this way, as she illuminated a portion of the dark hole he found himself trapped in.

He picked up his phone from the desk, glancing at the notification sitting on his screen. Voicemail from Barry Allen. Oliver sighed as he sat down in his chair, setting the phone down on the desk as he pressed play.

"Ollie, it's Barry. Again."

His voice radiated through the phone, causing Oliver to feel as if he stopped breathing.

"Just wanted to check in. Make sure you were still coming Saturday."

Saturday. Every muscle in Oliver's body tensed up at the thought of Saturday. His chest began to throb, causing Oliver to place his hand over his heart. His head began to pound again as he rested it into his palm.

"We have a fitting on Friday. Please give me a call."

Oliver threw his phone into a drawer under the desktop. He then pulled out a bottle of vodka that stood in a drawer beneath it. He poured a fourth of the liquid in the bottle into a glass he kept in his office, placing the cup in their air as if he was giving a toast.

"To Mr. and Mrs. West. Allen."